


a new name for everything

by eovaldi (dangerdays)



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Boston Red Sox, Trans Character, trade angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 18:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17288969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangerdays/pseuds/eovaldi
Summary: To see them just sitting there made him angry, it made him terribly jealous. The clean and neat scars on Mookie’s chest. The careful cadence of Benintendi’s voice. Ian didn’t even know these guys, besides the scouting reports. And the scouting reports hadn’t said a word about them being transgender.





	a new name for everything

Ian was glad to get out of Florida.

He was on his way to Boston, sitting in the airport with his bags packed. He had a one way ticket into the city. He should be happy, he should be fucking ecstatic. The best team in baseball wanted his old ass to play second base. Ian took a breath, slow and shaky. But he couldn’t let himself feel happy, because the trading usually came with the extra baggage.

The unspoken sentence hangs in Ian’s head. “We don’t want to have to explain being transgender to anyone at all - especially a bunch of dumbasses who hit a ball for a living - so we’re just going to wash our hands of this one. Another front office can deal with it.”

He didn’t blame them really. 

Okay, he blamed them a lot. This one didn’t hurt badly, the way the other trades had. He knew it was business, that it wasn’t what the others were. But yet here he was, in the airport analyzing every move he had made in his half season in California.

The Angels were okay. The conversation had never happened there. He never really felt at home though. He didn’t quite get enough time to adjust, it feels like. Didn’t make a lot of friends. Ian preferred it that way, honestly. 

At this point, it felt a bit stupid to get comfortable anywhere. 

But it still had him thinking. Were front offices spreading rumors about him? Did the Angels know? He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next. The testosterone prescription usually gave it away. It’s a controlled substance. The Adderall, they can explain. His injection? Harder. The scars? Impossible. If anyone ever caught him pantsless, game over. 

As he was arriving, getting acquainted, doing business stuff and all that shit he hated, he kept mulling it over in his head. He showered and changed privately. Absolutely no fucking around with anyone, ever. Save for a select few, Ian’s friends have to be kept at a distance to make sure they don’t put two and two together. It made him miserable, lonely, to keep thinking about it, analyzing his every move with the last team to make sure there was no conspiracy afoot. 

He was in a foul mood when he came into the locker room. Most of the guys didn’t seem to be around. Mitch Moreland, a familiar sight, was staring down at his phone, looking lost as usual. There were some pitchers, Ian wasn’t too sure of their names, hanging out in a corner, talking and laughing over something. Xander Bogaerts and Dustin Pedroia were engrossed in conversation that seemed animated and lively.

It looked like any other locker room. Ian felt both at home but, also a touch removed from all this. 

And then he sees two guys on the bench, Mookie Betts, Andrew Benintendi, sitting there together and smiling. They both are so young, Ian realizes. That makes him old. An old replacement brought in, a temporary balm for another aging second baseman. And as Ian is mulling this over, how he once again is chasing Pedroia’s tail, he realizes what he’s watching Mookie and Benintendi doing.

It’s something he does monthly, that he’s been doing monthly for about as long as he can remember really. There’s a little familiar bottle on the bench next to Mookie, he’s got his shorts pulled up to expose his thigh, and he’s just chatting with Benintendi.

Like he’s not giving himself a shot of testosterone in the middle of a baseball clubhouse. Like Benintendi isn’t holding a needle in his own hand, tapping the side to get the bubbles out.

Ian can’t stop the words before they come out. It feels like a punch to the gut, a knee jerk moment where he just simply says. “I - Don’t. Why are you doing that...here?”

They both break conversation instantly. The whole locker room becomes quiet, not that it was loud to begin with. Everyone is staring at Ian, and Ian is just staring back, staring at this thing that he had wanted forever. This openness.

To see them just sitting there made him angry, it made him terribly jealous. The clean and neat scars on Mookie’s chest. The careful cadence of Benintendi’s voice. He didn’t even know these guys, besides the scouting reports. And the scouting reports hadn’t said a word about them being transgender. They definitely said nothing about them being allowed to just, do things like that in the comfort of the locker room, with no one giving a second thought about this.

He remembers all the stress, the hiding, the explanations, the lies. Did they not have that? Were they just given this freedom? To have it all felt impossible, insurmountable for Ian. He’d resigned that he could just never have both, being out, and being a player, were two incompatible ways of life.

Clearly he was wrong. 

Mitch steps in front of Ian, big as a house it feels like. It snaps him out of his reminiscing. Benny and Mookie are behind him, staring at each other, at Mitch, at Ian. Ian feels his stomach roil again. Mitch hadn’t stood up for him like this.  _ He didn’t know - you shouldn’t be angry about it _ . But it still is a special kind of hurt for Ian to see Mitch standing up for Mookie and Benintendi, who are still looking at Ian with anger and shock on their faces.

“Is there an issue?” Mitch says, cool as you like. The anger is there under his voice, carefully guarded.  _ Always a gentleman _ , Ian thinks, nastily. 

Mookie pipes up. “We always do this in here?” He sounds more indignant than anything. Benintendi doesn’t say anything. He just keeps looking almost through Ian, to a fixed point beyond him. Like acknowledging Ian means that what Ian just said is real, and hurtful. 

“No - I - What I mean is-” Ian stumbles over the words, backpedaling as fast as he can.

“If you have a problem with it, you picked the wrong place to talk about it.” Mookie’s eyes are narrowing. Anger is not a good look on his face, he feels intensely uncomfortable. From the back of the room, Ian feels another pair of eyes on him.  _ Of course _ . He recognizes that pitcher, it’s Chris Sale, leaning against the wall, sharp blue eyes fixed on him.  _ Of course it would be him, fucking paranoid asshole. _

Ian has no idea what to do. Everyone is looking, and they’re all mad. He realizes that they all think Ian is the asshole. None of them know; for all they know, he’s just being a dick about this thing that is so damn confusing. How are they just out here, in the open, shirtless, stabbing needles into their thighs and talking about video games like it’s nothing? 

He does the only thing he really ever does when he gets overwhelmed. 

He leaves. Walks right out the door and into the hallway, to find somewhere quiet. Pull his knees to his chest, freak out about what just happened, and move on.

* * *

Dustin has to call a team meeting.

Everyone is heated about Kinsler, and rightfully so. As soon as he walked out of the room, that much became clear. Sale had cleared the length of the room in about 4 steps to ask Benny if he was alright, Mitch was soothing him with his slow, even voice. Mookie was yelling to Xander about what a fucking  _ asshole  _ Ian was, to show up there and not even ten minutes after he was a part of the team start bothering them about their lives.

There was no denying there were assholes in sports. There were even some on the team, to be frank. It was just the culture. But it was a culture that they were trying to change, turn around. Make it even slightly less shitty. Communication was how they did that. Usually when a new guy shows up, Dustin would call a meeting like this, non threatening, but with enough guys around to make it clear that if you aren’t okay with this, you’re in the minority. 

This is different though. Usually, there isn’t a spat immediately upon entering the room. Usually, there is time to explain. Not that it was either of their faults - god no. Dustin had always tried to make this place a place where they could just exist, not have to worry about anything other than playing baseball. Of course Kinsler had to go and fuck that up.

He rubs at his temples. It’s a complicated job, managing the emotions of a group of men.

The first order of business is making sure Benny and Mookie are okay. And they are, he can tell because now Benny is angry instead of that weird, empty, fixed glare. Mookie doesn’t let stuff like this phase him really, he’s far too good at everything he does for him to be insecure about that. Mitch is talking to Benny, a big hand on his shoulder, rubbing carefully in small and slow circles.  


“He was one of the better guys on the Rangers, you know. Good guy, with his head on straight. Really surprised me, that he would do that. Always was nice to me.”

“Ian wished you would lose every game Mitch.” That was Porcello, another guy who was familiar with Kinsler. 

“Well you know, he wasn’t ever hittin’ me or nothin’. He apologized.” As if that was all Mitch needed from someone; to stay out of his way and not physically assault him. 

“We’re getting off topic.” Everyone ceases their chatter, though they really don’t have to. He’s not their manager, or their dad. Dustin knows they respect him, not just because he’s a senior or whatever. 

Because of his knee, he spent a lot of time helping out in different ways now that he couldn’t play. He could still be useful in this way, in being a sound voice. A leader - is what Cora called him, and it was weird to hear it from his manager’s mouth. He thought that gave him too much credit, honestly. He just did this every now and again, kept everyone on the same page, got the bullshit out of the room so that they could do what they all really wanted to do, which was play baseball.

And this whole Kinsler thing was threatening to blow up, which would make two thirds of the outfield upset, which would get in the way of baseball. 

And also, Dustin didn’t want to see Mookie or Benny upset. They worked for too damn long for this. He’d seen them both come up from the minors, both sweet as can be. Benny especially, too damn nice for his own good. You really couldn’t ask for better teammates. It made the “gender thing” easier for outsiders coming in to take. Because how could you be mean to the two of them. Both incredible men in their own right. Both insanely good players, and always so supportive. 

Dustin was glad to have them around, not just because it made him feel better. Safety in numbers and all that shit. No one ever gave him crap for it, because they didn’t know. And when they teased him about his height, he mostly found himself being thankful that they only saw him as a short man, and nothing more than that.

Benny’s voice cuts through his reminiscing about how great his team is. It’s wavering a little, a little overly emotional. “-if he tries something, you know? I just don’t want him around me if he’s going to start in on me. I’ve seen the Youtube videos!”

Mookie’s just staring at Benny with his wide eyes, nodding. “I agree. He clearly wants to start shit. I don’t care if he doesn’t like this - he just needs to leave us alone.”

There’s a chatter of agreement, nods from the guys. Nathan Eovaldi’s soft voice pipes up from the back of the room. “I think maybe he doesn’t understand?” _ Makes sense he would be such a diplomat _ , Dustin thinks.

Nathan had been there only a few days, so this was all new to him. So far though, he’d just treated them like he treated everyone else. Which was with a reserved kindness. He seemed shy, mostly he’d been stuck at the hip with Sale since he got there. Mookie and Benny were probably a tad more than Eovaldi could handle at once. When they’d had this meeting only five days ago, he’d been a bit shocked at first, when Dustin explained, but he got over it in about a minute. He just smiled and said “I never knew.”

_ God giveth and god taketh away, I guess. _ There’s some disagreement towards Nate’s statement. Porcello is snapping, not at Nate, or at anyone else really, just at the sentiment. “Fuck that! He blew the chance he had - he’s been here what, ten minutes? And he’s already trying to stir the pot? I can’t believe it.”

Nate worries his lip between his teeth, like he does while he’s pitching. “I just feel like he might not understand. He’s older than all of us, you know.”

Rick scoffs. “By like, 5 years! He’s not  _ that _ old.”

Nate’s round eyes find Dustin’s. “I just think we should talk to him, you know. Before we tell someone. Because what it if was a mistake, like an honest mistake.” Everyone’s staring at Nate, like they’re trying to figure out if there’s ulterior motives, or if he’s just being the kind of guy who gives everyone a second chance. “If it turns out it wasn’t a mistake, then by all means, I’d tell him to get lost.”

“He has a point.” Pedroia says. “I know, tensions are high. And he has a...bit of a reputation preceding him. I know he’s not shy about his opinions. Even if they’re bad ones.” Porcello snorts at that. “But before we start any shit we should probably just talk to him. For all he knows - what he just saw was entirely not legal. I’ll go find him, set the record straight.”

Mitch frowns. “Shouldn’t be you, it ain’t fair. I could go. I know him.”

“If he tries anything stupid, I can take care of myself.” Mitch knew that was true. Dustin had to give him props though, Mitch always seemed like the first one to step up when it came to explaining things. It was nice, to get to sit back and listen to Mitch’s southern drawl form words like “transgender”, said so slowly it felt like three words instead of just one.

Mitch ceded with a shrug and a “Well...alright.”

* * *

Ian didn’t quite understand why he was so fucking upset, just that he was upset. The kind of upset that made you shake. He was pretty sure he was walking in circles, aimlessly looking for a place with a door that he could shut, lock, fall on the ground, lament being born.

When he finally found a room that seemed sparse, unoccupied and like he could just kind of vanish into it, he sat on the ground and put his head in his hands. His mind was swirling. He was having trouble trying to process it all at once. He couldn’t identify what the feelings swimming in his head were.

Was he angry? Angry that they got to have that, and he didn’t? Angry at all the guys in all the locker rooms who he had to hide from? Angry about the Rangers, trading him because they didn’t want to figure out what to do with him? The Tigers? For trading him for the same fucking reason? Angry that Mitch Moreland, of all fucking people, had been the one to call Ian out, like he had any fucking right to?

It might’ve been jealousy, jealousy was extremely close to anger. Jealous of the fact that they were out, that they were supported. That they could be the organization’s heroes, one of them was the fucking probable  _ MVP _ . This wasn’t weighing them down, holding them back. Ian always felt like maybe, if he could have just been cis, maybe he would’ve been just as good as everyone else, would’ve had to work less hard. He wouldn’t have such a complex towards the umpires, who made it feel like every rule they made was designed to make baseball so hard for him. Didn’t they know it was already hard for him?

Or maybe he was just sad. Maybe this was all sick, twisted sadness. It was too late for Ian. He was on the downhill half of his career. He was just going to be seen in decline now, and these guys were in the prime of their lives. Baseball wasn’t a progressive industry by any standards, but seeing them in the locker room like that...Kinsler wished he was 25. He wished he was young, and his ankle felt good, and that he was hitting the way that they were hitting.

And he wished he was out. He wished he was comfortable, like the way that they were. Just walking around like it was nothing. Sitting there with top surgery scars and testosterone.

And Mitch Moreland was the cherry on top of the whole fucking thing. Seeing his old teammate supporting the two of them like that had made Ian horribly sad and angry and jealous. If he had known, had Mitch on his side. If Mitch knew, way back when they were both in Texas, would his career have been different? Mitch had seemed nice enough, like a good guy, but he was very, very Southern. He was proud of it too, his drawl, his farm, his hunting. Ian would never have pegged him for a guy to stand up for his friends if they weren’t like him. Had he made the wrong choice, all these years, not trusting anyone? He judged Mitch by his accent, and his birthplace, and made a decision for his own safety. But it wasn’t the right call. He tries to think about him and Mitch, old friends at this point, and how Mitch would’ve reacted if that young, wild man he knew explained what transgender meant to him in a locker room in Texas.

_ It’s useless to sit around and think about what might’ve been _ . He tries to chide himself. But it’s so hard not to give in, it’s so hard not to sit there and imagine what it would’ve been like. To have someone have his back, to have someone stick up for him. He thinks about being one of the stars of the Rangers, how good that felt, how good it all felt, but how underneath it Ian always had that twinge of fear.  _ Imagine how good you could’ve been, imagine if that wasn’t holding you back _ .

He sat there for what felt like hours. Just mulling it over in his head. His chest felt tight, his throat raw, but there were no tears. He wasn’t going to cry. He usually didn’t, he was tough. It was one of the things he prided himself on. It felt like he should be crying though.

Everyone in that room thought he was something he wasn’t. Especially Betts and Benintendi. They all saw him as the very embodiment of the thing he struggled against constantly, of the thing he didn’t want to be. He never wanted to be the asshole in the locker room. He was in the shoes of every person who had ever made him feel singled out, teased him. All his paranoid fantasies of anyone finding out he was transgender had come to fruition. But Ian had been the bad guy. It was killing him.

He was trying to compose a way to apologize without coming out when he heard the knock on the door. “Go away.” His own voice sounded raw, though he was sure he hadn’t cried.

“No.” Ian thumped his head back against the wall. Of course, of course it was Pedroia. The last man on Earth he wanted to get a lecture from right now. “If you’re not letting me in, then I’m coming in.”

“Be my guest.” Ian spat out. “Since it doesn’t seem I have much of a choice.”

He certainly hadn’t changed much since college, Ian thought. He was still stocky, still ratty looking. The only difference was he grew a beard and added some wrinkles. And right now he walked with a bit of a limp, like his body was still unlearning being hurt.

“We have to talk about what happened back there.” Pedroia is fixing Ian with a steely gaze that makes him want to squirm. He isn’t going to budge an inch. They probably sent Pedroia in here to intimidate him, or scare him.  _ Well it isn’t going to work.  _ “The guys, they all decided they wanted to talk to you first. Instead of escalating shit, or telling Cora.”

Ian feels a rush of anger. After all this, they still were trying to extend the olive branch. He doesn’t quite know why that makes him feel so bitter. He just blinks back at Pedroia, trying to keep the anger off his face. Ian swallows the lump in his throat. “Cora knows?”

Pedroia nods. “Of course. How could he not?”

_ What a stupid question,  _ Ian thinks. His emotions are still boiling there under the surface, and having Pedroia in front of him, trying to be calm isn’t helping. He feels torn between screaming and just punching the guy in the face. Pedroia must think he’s talking cis guy to cis guy, and it fucking incenses Ian.

_ How dare he.  _ Ian knows there is no way he knows about Ian being trans. But it still makes him angry, the way Pedroia is talking to Ian, his tone, the disappointed look on his face. Trying to make him understand this thing he’s so familiar with, even though he thinks Ian doesn’t deserve it. A burden he’s always carried with him, and Pedroia doesn’t even see it. Ian’s always known he’d passed really well, but this was the one time in his life he wished someone could just tell by looking at him.

* * *

 

If Dustin was being completely honest with himself, Kinsler looked like shit. He wasn’t quite sure why, maybe he felt guilty, maybe he felt angry because he was actually being called to task on his actions, but whatever it was, he wasn’t happy about it.  

“Look, dude. Before Mookie and Benny showed up, it was just me - things are different now, so you need to-”

Kinsler makes a face like he’s been shot. There’s a pregnant pause, Kinsler staring at Dustin, looking gutted. Like he can’t believe it, Dustin’s chest starts to fill with annoyance, because Kinsler is staring at him still, with that empty look on his face. “Jesus Christ, what is your problem?”

Kinsler blinks a couple of times. “I’m sorry?” His voice sounds weak.

“Yeah, I’m trans too. So if you want to fuck with the two of them, you’re gonna go through me first.” Kinsler’s eyes are widening with every word, it feels like he’s about to haul off and punch Dustin.

“Fuck off.” Ian’s voice is a whisper, a horrible, vicious whisper. 

Dustin frowns and clenches his fist in his pocket. He’s going over the exercises he learned in his head, count down from ten, breathe,  _ don’t lose your shit, don’t lose your shit _ . “I am? Does it surprise you?”

“You’re not.” Ian says, shaking his head.

“What. Are you upset that a trans dude took your starting position in college? Is that what this is about?” Dustin can’t resist taking the knife and twisting it deeper, watching the pain flicker across Kinsler’s face makes it way worth it. He is still mad about it. Dustin knew he wasn’t the type to forget things like that.

The anger colors Ian’s cheeks, deep pink. His eyes narrow to slits almost. “I said fuck off.” Dustin notices he’s breathing a little uneven, rough. The pink in his cheeks and the rough breathing, if Dustin didn’t know Kinsler he would think he was going to start crying.

Fuck the counting, the breathing, Dustin lets the anger wash over him. Ian is standing up now, looking down at the floor, still looking upset as hell. “What is your problem!” Dustin lashes out now, venom in his voice. “I got half the locker room lining up to beat your ass for that stunt you pulled with Mook and Benny.” Kinsler fires him another look, he looks murderous, like he might start choking him there. Dustin takes a step forward, so they’re almost chest to chest. Kinsler is a good four inches taller than Dustin, but it’s not gonna stop him. “Come on. Tell me.”

He’s staring up at Kinsler, not breaking eye contact. He’s close enough he can definitely hear Kinsler trying to keep his breathing even. Maybe he’s counting backward from ten in his head too, Dustin thinks for a second. Finally, Kinsler looks away, down at the ground. “Fuck off. I can’t - I can’t fucking believe, all of this time. All along you were- you were just. Fuck off.” His voice is a hiss, low and menacing. He can’t form words, the anger is closing his throat.

Ian looks up, away from his shoes finally, and fixes Dustin with this glare that feels like the last look of a cornered animal. There is something feral and desperate inside Kinsler right now, and Dustin realizes he’s set him off. He’s really good at pushing people’s buttons, but it seems like he may have prodded Kinsler a bit too hard. “For  _ years _ I had a fucking complex about you, Pedroia, and now-”

Dustin laughs. Straight up laughs in Ian’s face, and Ian’s anger contorts into rage, the signs of it are ugly on his odd features. “What? You can’t believe someone without a dick can play better than you?” Ian’s taken a step forward, if Dustin were taller, he’d be nose to nose with the guy. He puts a hand on Ian’s chest and shoves him back, so his broad shoulders hit the wall with a thud. “Guess what. Maybe if you weren’t such a hateful piece of shit, you’d be a better ball player.”

That was it, that was the comment that turned Kinsler from cornered into rabid. He lets out this yell, this cry that is unlike anything Dustin has ever heard coming out of the mouth of a grown man. It’s part anguish, part rage, and it’s horrible to hear. It’s the sound of Ian about to strangle him, he’s sure of it. But the thing about him is he’s always been calm when facing down a fight, an angry man so much bigger than him. You kind of have to be, there’s no other options.

He’s bracing for the fight when he sees Ian reach into the front of his basketball shorts and chuck something at him. He ducks, because he’s got insane reflexes for being 35. Whatever it was splats against the back wall, and bounces. He’s not sure what the fuck it is, and he fixes Ian with a questioning stare. Ian’s hands are shaking, he’s just staring at Dustin with fire in his eyes. He has never seen Kinsler like this, not in college, not when they played against each other. It’s a little terrifying.

Kinsler grabs the hem of his shirt and hoists it over his head, and he throws his shirt at Dustin, still breathing angrily, bare chested now. Dustin fails to stop himself from gasping. Top surgery scars, bad ones too. Old, gnarled, like roots on a tree. It’s clear Kinsler didn’t treat his scars right, clear his surgeon was careless. The room is silent as they stare at each other, one aging transgender second baseman staring back at the other. Dustin’s head swims.

Ian pulls on the waistband of his shorts, and Dustin puts both hands out in front of him. “Ian, I- you don’t-” Kinsler just fixes him with this angry stare, his eyebrows knit together in the middle of his face. Like a dare, he pulls down the waistband of his shorts, his boxers, revealing...nothing.

Ian smiles, but it isn’t a happy one, it’s a horrible smile. It’s a smile that sends a chill down Dustin’s spine. “Yeah,” is all Kinsler says, in response to Dustin’s staring. His brain is still trying to catch up with this revelation, that all this time, Kinsler was just there, hiding in plain sight. He doesn’t know what to do, what to make of all this. He just stares at Ian, standing there in only basketball shorts, breathing heavily.

He suddenly feels awful. Looking at Ian’s scars, looking up at Ian’s angry face, his shirt balled up on the floor, and…

Kinsler’s packer, laying on the floor of the room like a dead animal. Dustin starts to laugh at the absurdity of that mental image, which of course, is a huge mistake. He still feels awful, and the laugh is clearly an uncomfortable one. But Kinsler still snarls out “What? What is so fucking funny?”

* * *

The fucking nerve of this asshole. Laughing in Ian’s face when he was angry like this, when it felt like the anger would make him go blind. His hands were still shaking, the room filled with Pedroia’s annoying laugh. It was like nails on a chalkboard for Ian. “Shit...shit!” Dustin says, shaking his head. “All these fucking years, Kinsler.”

He stops laughing, immediately, like someone cut the cord. There’s a look on his face Ian can’t quite place, wistful maybe. “I didn’t know.” A simple answer. Ian feels annoyed that Dustin has regressed into stating the obvious. It only makes his temper flare even more. He can start to feel it building in his chest, the uncomfortable pressure that he knew meant he was going to have an outburst. He was so bad at controlling himself.

Ian lurches forward and grabs his packer off the floor. He isn’t sure why he threw it at Pedroia in the first place, he doesn’t remember his reasoning behind it. He shoves it down the front of his shorts unceremoniously, eyes never leaving Pedroia’s. “Thanks for the fucking intervention, asshole.” His voice is still rough, but no longer from sadness.  _ It’s gotta be fucked up from that yelling I did _ , he thinks. Ian’s hands are down the front of his boxers, adjusting his fake dick in the way that he’s almost memorized by now. It takes no effort at all, which is perfect to keep yelling at Pedroia.

“I’m just- I’m  _ so  _ glad to know your fucking team didn’t fucking try to get rid of you when they found out.” He can almost taste the venom in his voice. There’s this look on Pedroia’s face, that Ian doesn’t care to place. A mix of shock and anger he guesses.

“I just- I’m fucking  _ overjoyed _ .” Ian snatches his shirt off the floor and glares back at Pedroia. The cotton balled up in his hand gives him a little ground, something to hold onto and squeeze, which normally helps, but the anger isn’t fading. Every time he sees the stupid blank look Pedroia is giving him it makes him want to snap.

And for the second time that day, he just charges out of the room. He’s shirtless, and doesn’t even care. He hardly even noticed that there was a little crowd outside the door, Mitch, Benintendi, Mookie, and a couple others. He feels their eyes on his chest, tracing his scars.  _ Like I don’t know what they look like _ , he thinks bitterly,  _ Like I don’t know how this makes me look. _

He doesn’t quite realize where he’s headed until he’s out the door. The dugout. There’s a bat in his hand, he’s shirtless, everything feels like a blur. He’s so angry. His chest is on fire, his eyes are stinging. He hates Pedroia, he hates Moreland, he hates every last one of them. And he hates himself too. He hates that he probably blew his one chance to be out because he threw a fit. Because he was Ian Kinsler, and he had a reputation, and of course he was going to throw a fit.

He doesn’t even know who’s bat this is, but he hopes it’s Pedroia’s, because he’s smacking it over and over again against the ground.

* * *

“My bat!” Brock is watching from the tunnel, frowning. “He broke my bat!”

There’s a little crowd there, at the mouth of the tunnel, watching Kinsler out there, smashing the remains of Brock’s bat against the ground. Brock is making a horrified face, and Benny has a hand on his shoulder, surveying the incident with a frown on his face. Mookie’s eyes haven’t gone back to their unsurprised look since he saw Kinsler come streaking out of the room shirtless, and Mitch and the pitchers are watching the show with a slightly bemused look on their face.

Dustin, on the other hand, just feels horrible. He might have taken it a step too far, though he really hadn’t known Ian was trans. Watching Kinsler out there, yelling and smashing that bat to pieces, just made him sad.

They all stand there, watching in silence as he grabs another bat, until Mookie finally breaks the silence. “So...he's...he is?” 

Dustin nods. “Yeah. He’s trans.” Their talking is punctuated by the sound of someone else’s bat smacking against the metal railing in the dugout. “Crisis averted.” At least now they knew he wasn’t hateful, or going to snitch on them or anything.

Xander laughs a little. “You call that crisis averted?” That kind of clears the air a little, everyone giggles too. It takes the viciousness out of the situation, now it's just a guy throwing a fit again.

“Should someone go out there? Talk to him?” Benny asks, looking towards Dustin, almost like he’s asking permission. Typical Benintendi, always wanting to help others, even when they were violently mad.

“I wouldn’t. Give him some space.” Dustin knows firsthand how anger can make you feel, and knows that right now Ian is going to turn that anger on whoever he sees first. Neither Mookie or Benny deserve to have another weird encounter with Kinsler. “He might actually kill you if you go out there right now.”

The frown is audible in Mitch’s voice. “Why isn’t he happy? Shouldn’t he be happy?” It was a simple but legitimate question, with a really complicated answer, needing insight that only Kinsler could give.

Maybe Dustin could pretend to know what he was feeling but, he’d played here his whole baseball life. Even in the minors he wasn’t exactly hiding. He’d always been more or less out his entire career. There was just something about this place that made him feel comfortable, the way college hadn’t. The guys here weren’t much different than any other clubhouse, but he’d always felt more at ease here than any other place he’d played baseball.

Although, that wasn’t saying much, he had been playing here for eleven years, and he wasn’t ever going to play anywhere else. It had been a long time since he felt afraid of being outed, he knew people respected him around here, respected him far too much to ever put him down. He was a hero, and even if fans found out, that wouldn’t matter. He was set for life here.

He thinks about what little he knows about Kinsler, the trades, the instability. The bottle of Adderall in Kinsler’s locker. The simple mistakes he made. Wouldn’t he be happy to at least have a single weight lifted off his chest, maybe the biggest weight of all?

“Honestly Mitch? I’m not really sure.”  Kinsler is going to town on the second bat he’s chosen as a victim. He’s still shirtless. He screams something, but Dustin doesn’t know if it is aimed at the guys in the tunnel, or just to the world itself.

Mookie is wearing his patented one-lip-in-a-sneer irritated look. “He better not break my bat too, I’m gonna make him pay for that.” Everyone gives Mookie a surprised look, he usually isn't vindictive like this. “I just meant literally. He’s going to buy me a new one. Christ.”

Dustin has had enough. This is kind of embarrassing for Kinsler at this point. Everyone is there, watching him lose his fucking mind, with no idea what to do. He’s gotta step up at some point. “Hey!” He yells from the tunnel. “Fucking quit it man!”

Ian whirls around to stare directly at Dustin. “If you take one fucking step towards me I’ll fucking kill you Pedroia! I mean it!” He’s pointing the barrel of the bat at him like a threat. Dustin decides not to test whether or not he means business or he’s just being hyperbolic. Almost on cue, Ian brings the bat down one last time, and it breaks with a resounding crack.

“God dammit.” Mookie mumbles to himself. “I liked that one too.”

* * *

 

Ian had fallen to his knees at this point, all the anger in his chest had exploded outward. Now he was just embarrassed, horrifically embarrassed. And his eyes were still burning like he was going to cry, which was so frustrating. He was trying to blink back tears, not let himself do this, with everyone watching from the dugout. He wouldn’t cry in front of all these people. He wouldn’t let himself. 

But he did. He gave up. Fuck not crying, fuck this team, fuck this city, fuck Pedroia for making him feel like this. Fuck the Rangers for trading him in his prime, fuck the Tigers for trading him to a shitty team no one cared about, and fuck the Angels for sucking and forcing him to come here.

He hears footsteps. Slow ones, approaching him carefully. “Hey.”

It’s Mitch, probably the last person Ian needs kindness from right now. He hides his face in his hands, so Mitch can’t see he’s crying. But he definitely can hear the weakness in his voice when he says “Go away, Mitch.” The tone is wavering, he feels so small, so weak. Like a kid again.

Mitch does not go away, in fact, he sits down in the grass next to Ian. Ian won’t look at him, he can’t handle it. Mitch has these brown puppy dog eyes that always did a number on him back on the Rangers. He would give Mitch whatever he wanted. “Now you know, I ain’t the greatest at talkin’.” Mitch drawls out. “But I respect you, Ian.” He has to hold back the scoff. He’s sitting here shirtless, crying, after breaking two bats. “I got no idea what’s going on in that stupid, pissed off head of yours. But that’s no excuse to yell at God like that.”

Ian groans out loud. “You’re  _ kidding  _ me.” It does make him laugh though. When he was yelling out there on the field, he wasn’t even sure he was saying anything that was important, that meant something. But clearly Mitch had heard, and what he heard, he didn’t like. Typical of him, but it was the kind of thing that really endeared him to Ian.  _ Pedroia sent the right foot soldier out to take care of me _ .

“Okay, okay. I’m just sayin’. But we all got your back. That’s really what I came out here to say. And you take your time out here, but when you’re ready, we’re here. We want you here. So long as you promise to leave Benny and Mook alone.” Mitch pauses for a moment, like he really wants this to sink in. “They’re young. They look up to you, I think. They know how good of a ball player you are.”

Normally, Ian would have accepted the compliment with a raised eyebrow. But right now, it felt borderline impossible to even think about anyone viewing him in a positive light. He and Mitch sit there in silence for what feels like an unbearable eternity, before Mitch finally speaks up again.

“You know, for the record, I didn’t notice nothin’. You did a pretty damn good job of keeping it hidden.” He’s not looking at Ian when he says it, because Mitch’s brand of emotional intensity usually doesn’t involve heart to hearts with men. He knows Mitch is taking a big step here, a step into the unknown.  _ This clubhouse changed him _ . Ian thinks. He likes this version of Mitch better, this Moreland that came into his own. He seemed happier here than he had ever been in Texas. Which is why Ian says what he says next.

“That’s why they traded me, Mitch.” Now he meets Ian’s eyes, with his own, and Ian’s never seen Mitch look so shocked, so sad. They had been friends. Maybe not close friends, but friends nonetheless.

“Really?” There’s not a hint of disbelief in Mitch’s voice though, the question is more of a formality, a way for him to mine the rest of the story from Ian.

“Yeah. Daniels found out somehow, and then I was out the door. Thank fucking god for my contract. If I hadn’t had that, I don’t know where I would be right now. Not playing ball, probably.” Ian starts picking at the grass nervously. He’s never really talked about this with anyone before, it had been his weight to bear. But this felt nice, to tell someone, to know that Mitch would have his back. Mitch was always going to have his back, he’d said so. And Ian wanted to believe him so fucking badly.

“Is that why you called him a sleazeball?” Mitch says, a little smirk coming onto his face. “And all that stuff about hoping we lost every game?”

"Yeah. One hundred percent fucking sleazeball.” Ian doesn’t like to think about this. He’s still bitter. He’s probably going to go into the ground bitter about this. He can feel the anger starting to swell in his chest, but it’s not angry like he was earlier. This is an old wound that he’s rubbing salt into right now. “I wasn’t bad at baseball.”

“No, people liked you.” Mitch drawls, softly. There’s another pause, Ian can feel the bitterness washing over him in waves as he looks at Mitch. Mitch, who probably never had to worry about anything the way Ian did. He tries to shove it down. It makes him feel so guilty when Mitch asks him, carefully, “Do you wanna come inside? Put on a shirt?”

“I feel like an asshole.” Ian looks back at the tunnel, at everyone looking at him. They’d all watched him throw the fit, break the bats, scream at nothing. He felt so goddamn stupid, he felt trapped.

“Honestly? You kinda look like one.” Mitch says with a smile, standing up. Ian follows suit, his legs feeling a little bit weak. He’d stopped shaking at least. “D’you want a hug?” This wasn’t new, Ian always kind of enjoyed the way Mitch would pull him in for a one armed hug. It felt like the old days, Ian could pretend he and Mitch were in their 20’s again.

“I’ll be okay. I’ll come inside.” He turns towards the tunnel, at everyone watching still. He hopes that they couldn’t hear what he was saying to Mitch. “I just need you all not to LOOK AT ME FROM THE TUNNEL!” He shouts, cupping his hands, so that they can all hear him. “LIKE I’M A ZOO ANIMAL.” He’s glaring at all of them, though he’s too far away to read all their expressions.

“They’re worried about you.” Mitch says. “But I’ll tell them to scatter.” Mitch cups his hands around his mouth too, even though he’s got a pretty good voice that carries throughout the stadium. “CAN Y’ALL GO?” On cue, Pedroia waves a hand, and everyone retreats. “They’ll leave you to it now. Maybe, go put on a shirt, relax a little. Just, don’t make them worry.”

“Thanks, Mitch.” Ian means it. They start walking back inside together. “I think I need a shower.”

“You’ll find ‘em that way.” Mitch kind of gestures to the left. “Don’t take too long. Pedey’s probably gonna wanna have a team meeting about this.”

Ian starts rubbing his eyes. He has a headache from crying, and the thought of having to sit in a room with all these sort of strangers and sort of friends, talking about his mental breakdown makes his head pound. “Great.” He says sarcastically. “I can’t wait.”

_ What is with this team? _ Is his only thought as he trudges towards the showers.

* * *

Ian had been sitting in the shower for about an hour now. Or at least he thought it had been an hour, could’ve been more, or less, he wasn’t really sure. And he really was sitting, in a private stall, just sitting there and thinking. He did this fairly often, the shower was always a place where he could get away from the buzz of the clubhouse, scrub his skin raw, and come out feeling like a new man.

But this time, he was just processing everything that had happened, all the information that Pedroia had dumped onto him like it meant nothing, when to Ian, it brought the sky falling down around him. His brain is playing a loop, of Mookie and Benintendi talking to each other, laughing, not being afraid that they would be beat or traded or not be allowed to play baseball anymore, of Pedroia, on his team in Arizona, and all the time he’d spent around him. How had he not known? Should he have known?

It makes his heart ache. He’d always had to be so careful, and he hated that. Ian wanted to be like the rest of them, not have this huge, unexplainable chip on his shoulder. And now he realized there was an identical chip on Pedroia’s shoulder that Ian had missed. To him, it explained everything. He’d been on a team with a much, much younger Pedroia, and at that time he’d seen him as a threat. When really they were a lot more similar than he’d thought.

And that fucking stung. All those years, replacing Pedroia first at the All Star game, now here, it felt like a slap to the face. If he’d known...things would surely be different. Ian rests his head on his knees. It’s difficult not to have sympathy for him.  _ How many people knew?  _ His head is still pounding.  _ Was he ever scared, like I was? What did he think of me? Another cis asshole? _

All these years, Pedroia was right there. Right out of his grasp. They certainly would’ve been friends if he’d known. There would’ve been a bond there. He could’ve taught Ian, maybe given him some secret key of advice that he didn’t have. The one that makes it so you can just be openly trans in your clubhouse. Ian can’t imagine not being vigilant constantly, it’s become such a part of his routine, he doesn’t even stop to think about it.

He realizes slowly that Mookie and Benintendi and Pedroia probably shower with everyone else, change out in the open, not even a bit ashamed. His chest feels like it’s going to cave in, he realizes he’s never seen another body like his until today. Sure, he’s seen porn, he was so lonely, he wanted to imagine what it would be like. What sex with him could look like, but all he ran into was horrible fetishizing things. These men did things Ian would never do, they looked soft, the way Ian would never look. And they let their partners call them awful names, things Ian didn’t ever even know until he’d gone down the rabbit hole. It left him unsatisfied and feeling more like an outcast than ever. 

He thinks about Mookie and Benintendi, the way they look like he did when he was at his peak. He wonders how the other guys react, showering with them, and finds himself imagining what they must look like naked. He’s conjured a fantasy where no one cares that four of the men in the room have no dick. Ian tries to imagine showering, changing, where people can see him, tries to imagine not hiding any longer.

He’s busy imagining this, imagining Mookie’s nice top surgery scars and Benintendi, a perfect picture of a Midwestern boy, when he hears a knock.

For the second time that day, Dustin Pedroia’s voice comes from the other side of the door. “Hey, Ian. I don’t know if this is weird but uh- if you’re in the mood to see another naked dude. Since you showed me yours, I’ll show you mine.” Ian blinks slowly, standing up. The thought of seeing his old teammate naked is weird, almost entirely off putting. But also, he’s so curious.

“Sure.” Ian says. “The water’s getting cold though. So if you’re gonna come in, do it now.”

Pedroia is standing there in a towel. He smiles at Ian, but it looks forced, maniacal. There’s an edge to Pedroia that Ian can’t quite figure out. He’s scared if he gets too close, he’ll get sliced on it.

Pedroia is hairy. Very hairy.  _ T did a fucking number on him. _ Ian thinks, as his eyes scan over. Pedroia’s chest hair hides his scars pretty well. But Ian sees that they’re not healed well either, it looks like someone took a dull pair of kids scissors to Pedroia’s chest. It takes him a moment, there’s a pause, and Pedroia drops his towel. They’re both standing there, staring at each other, naked.

“How did Mookie heal so nicely.” Ian whispers. It’s the only thing he can think of to say.

“It’s different now. Things are different now.” There’s an emotion there that Ian can’t place for a minute. He doesn’t know what to make of this.

“I see that.” It feels so obvious. Ian really never thought he would be standing here, looking at someone who up until this moment, he felt nothing but animosity towards. They’re staring at each other. The only sound is their breathing, and the water hitting the floor.

Ian glances over the rest of Pedroia’s body. He’s toned, hair everywhere. There’s a couple scars, criss crossing across his left knee. Ian gasps a little when he notices. “You didn’t get bottom?” It’s a surprise, Ian tries to keep the grin he feels inside from spreading across his face.  _ Like me  _ is all he can think right now. 

Pedroia laughs. “I play baseball for a living. Maybe when it’s all over. But right now? I don’t need it.” He’s smiling a little at Ian, it feels, weird. Something stirs deep in Ian’s gut at that moment. Recognition maybe? He’s looking back at a body that could be his, for the first time in his life. He can’t figure out what to do, what to say. It’s not like he’d always imagined it to be, looking in the mirror at home, wondering what it would be like if he ever saw another man like him naked. Pedroia is so much smaller than he is, but it feels like he’s looking at his mirror image for a split second.

Ian doesn’t know why he says what he says next. “I’m jealous.” His voice is low. He’s staring at his feet, water slipping down the drain underneath him.

“I know.” It’s simple, but it’s what he needed to hear. He needed to hear that Pedroia understood that he was upset, why he was upset about all this. There was no other way for Ian to vent his emotions aside from baseball, he felt sick with it, sick with shame, and anger.

He’s so vulnerable, instinctively, he hunches his shoulders, a habit left over from the days before he had top surgery. It was a tactic to hide his chest, the thing he was most sensitive about. He’s never, ever shown vulnerability to people he barely knows. But something about seeing Pedroia here, naked, in front of him makes him want to spill his guts.

“I went for so long...thinking it was only me.” The words hang in the thick fog of the shower. He feels horrible as soon as he says it, being open feels like rubbing salt into the wound.  _ At least if I start crying, he won’t be able to tell.  _ “They...they’re just so...open about it.” 

“They worked hard for that you know.” Pedroia says. His eyes are softened, and it feels wrong, in his normally angry face. “It wasn’t easy, for them.” Ian never meant to suggest it was, and he feels guilty. None of this could be easy. He just...he wished he was brave like they were, brave enough to stare down the consequences, instead of covering everything up with bravado, running away from all his problems.

It was all so hard for Ian to even begin to process. Now that it was happening, he wasn’t sure what his place in all this was. Was he meant to be out like they were? Was he supposed to mentor them? He’d always wanted to mentor players, but in a place he had a relationship with. He’d been so close both times, with both teams. The sting of losing that felt fresh and new, seeing these men, looking up to Pedroia. “It got me traded twice.” It feels like he shouldn’t be saying it.

Pedroia’s not familiar with Ian’s history, he can tell by the way he furrows his brows and asks, “The Angels?”

Ian shakes his head. “Surprisingly, no. It’s definitely been on my mind, that’s probably why I’ve been such an asshole today. Because all the other times - that’s what it was. Someone who didn’t know, found out, and washed their hands of me.” The look on Pedroia’s face is part confusion, part sadness, part anger. He’s an open book right now, and it’s not just because Ian is pouring his heart out to him while naked. It’s an understanding, a way of life, that Ian knows they both share.

The fear must have been the same in Pedroia. All these years, hiding out in Boston, in this organization, becoming a star. Just like Ian had, when he was in Texas. And then he was tossed aside, the way that Pedroia wasn’t. It all felt so unfair, in that moment, that fate had made Ian into a washup, and Pedroia into a hero.

“I just can’t stop- earlier, when I was sitting in here, I just kept thinking, what it must be like. To have felt safe here.” Pedroia is staring still, with that weird upset look on his face. “When Mitch stood up for them, that blew my fucking mind. Everyone rounded on me so fast.” His voice drops into the tone he gets when he’s reminded of how hard things have been. “That never would’ve happened, back on the Rangers. Not ever.”  

"There wasn't one person you thought you could trust? What about- Hamilton? You were close with Hamilton, right?" Pedroia says, and Ian, for the first time in a long time, thinks of Josh Hamilton.

“As close as a preachy Christian and a secular Jew can be - I guess.” Ian shrugs. Despite the preachiness, and the Christian thing, they’d been pretty good friends, about as close as Ian would let himself have. He tried not to think about him much anymore, because the whole situation was uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. It takes him a minute to fully understand just  _ why _ Pedroia had brought Josh up: Pedroia was never alone. He’d probably been out here for a long while. And he thought Ian might have that too. He was trying to comfort him, in his own stilted and awkward way.

There’s this wistful look on Pedroia’s face all of the sudden. “You know, when I told David…” He giggles. He fucking  _ giggles _ , like the memory is so gleeful to him that he can’t contain himself. “He didn’t care. Like at all. He just went - ‘OK Peewee!’ and clapped me on the back. This was before he figured out my name.”

Ian finds himself smiling, despite himself. Despite everything, how jealous and angry and sad he had been earlier, he’s laughing. “He didn’t know your name?” It’s the funniest thing in the world suddenly, they’re both laughing like schoolgirls.

“Nope! Was about as concerned with it as the whole gender thing. He didn’t care. He just cared that I could play baseball.” It sounds like heaven to Ian. Getting to tell someone something huge like that, and having them almost brush it off sounds like a dream.

Ian thinks on his clubhouse experiences, he wants to share with Pedroia. Only bitterness wells up instead, and Ian, exhausted from the fit; has no filter. “I don’t know what would have happened if some of the guys in those clubhouses figured it out. Maybe I’d be dead.” As soon as he says it he realizes he sucked the air out of the room. But it’s too late to take it back. Pedroia blinks at him, and Ian, stupid, stupid idiot, continues.

“The kind of stuff some of them said about women I just- I’d have ended up a horror story. Like, a fucking dismembered corpse in the woods, gang ra-“

“Okay. I get it, I get it.” Pedroia cuts him off quickly, with a concerned glance. Ian suddenly notices the water is freezing, he’s shivering a little bit, and he steps outside of the stream. Pedroia notices, and immediately says. “We should talk more when you’re not naked.”

Ian nods. He realizes this is the first shower he’s taken in a long time with another person looking at him. He thinks a little sadly about his ex-wife suddenly.

“I mean it, about apologizing.” Pedroia’s tone is suddenly serious as hell, he’s fixing Ian with a stare that feels like he can hear inside Ian’s head, and he’s saying  _ Stop wallowing. _

“Can I...have a minute?” Ian doesn’t know why he’s asking for permission really, as if Pedroia is in charge of him. It makes him angry at himself, for submitting so easily to the leader of the team.  _ He’s good at it _ , Ian thinks. The envy comes running back full force, and he hopes it isn’t written all over his face.

“Yes, but I want you to know, they all still think you’re just a huge asshole.” Pedroia has no hint of the laugh in his voice anymore. Ian feels uncomfortable, like he’s being scolded. He’s suddenly hyper aware of his body, of being naked, and of having told Pedroia a lot of things he had never told anybody before, despite hardly knowing him.

“You didn’t explain?” Ian’s confused now, he thought that he’d been unceremoniously presented as trans to the entire team. But when he thinks back on the faces he’d seen waiting outside the room, eavesdropping, it really only was Mitch, Mookie, and Benny.

“No man. That’s your business, I mean, a few of them saw you topless. They can put two and two together, they’re not stupid. But I’m not gonna take this chance from you.” Pedroia turns to leave, but glances back at Ian real quick. “The team - they’re good people Ian. Don’t blow this.”

It’s a weird note to leave on. Ian turns off the shower a few minutes after, his goosebumps rising as he thinks about what Pedroia had just said to him. Explaining it to everyone, it felt so terrifying. Mitch hadn’t been that difficult to tell, Mookie and Benintendi already know, but there’s still the rest of the roster to face down. To explain to. There’s all this fresh possibility in the air. Ian had never come out to a whole team at once, only a few people, here and there.

Ian wasn’t brave enough to straight up tell anyone when he was on the Tigers. Upton had found out by accident, by no fault of Ian’s own. It was the worst day of Ian’s life probably, he’d been panicking in the locker room. Shaking, thinking about the fact that he was a baseball player, in the middle of a game, having his  _ motherfucking period _ like he was 14 again, like he hadn’t been on testosterone for like 10 years.

And the white uniform, of  _ course _ it had to be that horrible white uniform, of course it couldn’t have been an away game. He was panicking between innings, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes, when Upton had found him. He was lucky that it wasn’t anyone that he hated. And Justin had helped him workshop the solution, to talk to the doctors, have them take him out of the game with some unspecified injury. And he had welcomed Ian back with open arms on the Angels. It was nice, being there with an old friend, one who knew Ian.

He’d told Ausmus a little bit after the disaster happened. He explained that until he got this sorted, it was gonna be a little touch and go with him. He felt like a child all over again, and admitting this all to his manager, someone who he felt like was sort of an equal, made him deeply ashamed of the whole thing. He mentioned vaguely discussing with his doctor the idea of just removing it, so that this wouldn’t happen again, so that he could keep playing baseball without this interrupting everything. Ausmus didn’t care much really, just as long as he could play.

The front offices of these places, they cared. The people behind the doors, the people with the money, they cared. That was the worst part for Ian. That was why he had to be on his toes about this whole thing, be careful. But here, maybe the front office was willing to turn a blind eye? Or maybe they didn’t know. Ian had trouble envisioning a clubhouse that was that in tune with each other, who was willing to do that for the other. And if he was a part of it now, did that mean they would do the same for him? Or would he have to be homegrown, the way they were, not a transplant.

Ian never really had felt like he used agency, or anything similar to it, to come out. It had always been on the other party. But now it was on his shoulders. Was he supposed to make a speech, a big deal, an event? Call a team meeting? Have Pedroia call the meeting for him? He didn’t know. Ian suddenly felt so small. He hated it. He liked to feel big, paid attention to, but not for this. Not for the gender thing. He wanted people to see how good he played ball, and love him for that. How was he supposed to navigate that? Would people treat him differently here if they thought he was cis?

All the questions rattled around in his brain as he got dressed. This had all happened way too fast for his brain. He needed to take his meds, eat something, maybe go for a run. Figure out a game plan. He wished there was a baseball game tonight, even if he wasn’t playing, he could’ve at least sat and watched. Baseball always made him feel better.

* * *

Ian’s got no idea how he managed this, but there’s a sizeable amount of the Red Sox team cramped into this locker room right now. He knows using Pedey as his megaphone helped, but still. The way some of them showed up despite not having a game to play that night was kind of astounding. Of course, not everyone was there. But most of the important players were.  

Ian looks out across the crowd, and his stomach roils. Benintendi and Mookie of course, are there, staring at him expectedly. They know about his gender, but they really are waiting for the apology. That’s the easier part of this, Ian thinks, which makes him smile a little. He’s never thought of apologizing as easy. It’s one of his least favorite things to do. But when the other option is revealing to twenty cis men that he’s transgender, apologizing feels like a walk in the park. 

The pitchers are all there too, some familiar faces, ex-Tigers chattering amongst themselves. David Price, making Chris Sale laugh, while Rick Porcello looks on. Some sad looking guy who Ian doesn’t recognize is hanging on the edge of the group, looking like he’s gonna jump out of his skin. There’s some young guys, Ian thinks some of their names might be Devers and Rodriguez, speaking Spanish quickly amongst each other. He knows two of them are catchers, but neither of them really looks like a “Swihart” to him. It feels like a logic problem in school, trying to figure out who is who. It all blurs together in his mind. Mitch is still hanging around, as well as Pearce, and Ian feels a little comforted seeing some adults in the room. 

And of course, Pedroia, smiling at Ian, almost expectantly. “I got everyone who really matters to show up, I guess. Really you’re only missing a few of the relievers. And you can talk to Sale about that.” Ian blinks a few times, and clears his throat. Suddenly it feels like he’s not able to speak, like his brain leaked out his ears and all the thoughts, his plans for what to say and the right way to say it are gone.

“Um, well. This wasn’t  _ really _ how I wanted to do this.” Ian feels his heart skip a few beats, his legs feel like they’re gonna fold up like a cheap card table underneath him. “I know we didn’t get off on the right foot earlier. And, I just want to say I’m sorry for acting like a crazy person. And to whoever-- I’m sorry I broke your bat.” That was the easy part. He can feel his throat trying to close around the words, his whole body seems to be revolting against it.

But everyone is staring at him, and Ian finds himself making eye contact with Pedroia, looking into his usually angry face, but something there is different. Something in his eyes had softened, and when Ian looked at him, he suddenly felt soothed. Dustin nods once, a little “go on, it’s gonna be fine” nod. 

Ian feels like everything might just be okay, for the first time all day. He takes a deep breath in, and breaks the stare with Pedroia, to look out across the collection of faces. It felt like a sea of people, when in reality, it wasn’t that many.

“This is gonna surprise a couple people I had the pleasure to play with at some point...” Ian says, fixing his eyes on Mookie’s sneakers of all places.  _ Breathe. Rip off the bandaid. Prove them wrong.  _ Ian tells himself.  _ Whatever happens, you’ll be fine. _ “But I have something kind of important to tell everyone.”

* * *

 

Dustin had watched Kinsler explain himself to the rest of the guys, a little nervous out of empathy for him. Watching him stand in front of these people, sharing something he never had planned on sharing so publicly, made Pedroia remember how it had felt when he’d done this in the clubhouse the first time. Afterwards, some people went to shake Ian’s hand, or clap him on the shoulder, or pull him into a bro hug. Mitch had even tugged Ian into a full on bear hug. Ian was smiling, ear to ear, into Mitch’s shoulder. It made Dustin’s heart feel full, to watch Kinsler on the receiving end of the best quality of this team, their ability to support you. 

He sat back and basked in the moment for a while. This felt like something he normally wouldn’t do, just sit back and feel happy for someone else, someone he hardly knew. But Ian had a right to this, a right to be happy, a right to be himself. Whether he agreed or not, Dustin was glad that he was getting to have this moment with his new team.  Eventually, the room cleared out, so it was just Ian and Dustin. He was trying to give Ian some space, just sitting on the couch and checking his texts, including some from Mookie, quipping about how Dustin better hook Mookie up with Ian’s Venmo for that bat.  

“Hey!” Ian called out to Dustin, interrupting him from trying to plan out how he was going to break it to Ian that Mookie wanted cash compensation for that bat. Ian plops down next to Dustin on the couch. “I wanted to say...thanks. That felt, um. That felt really nice.” Ian won’t look at him still, he’s looking at the ground instead, slouched a little forward. “I was worried.” 

Dustin felt the urge to offer him a drink or invite him to dinner, but resisted. “It’s fine. I knew they’d take it well. It’s only the fourth time they’ve heard it, after all.” He nudges Ian a little with his elbow, and Ian giggles.

“It feels nice. I can come in tomorrow, I’ll change out here.” Ian pauses, and the room is silent except for the two of them breathing. “That feels weird to say. It’s going to be weird, to actually do this.”

“Weird in a good way?” Dustin can’t help himself from smiling at Ian, he remembers feeling this way.

Ian finally turns to look at Dustin. “Yeah.” He says quietly. “In a really good way. I just...I’m thinking too much.” He sighs, confusion brings out the dent in between Ian’s eyebrows again. 

“You wanna tell me about it?” Dustin knows how mixed-up Ian must be feeling right about now. It’s been a long fucking day for them both. Maybe talking about it could help Dustin sort it out in his head too.

“I guess.” Ian shrugs. “I just thought, all of the sudden, what now? Like, what comes next. Do I come out publicly? In a press conference? I’m not ready for that- God, Dustin, people are evil out there, I don’t want just anyone  _ knowing _ you know? I’m not ready for this.” The panic has edged into Ian’s voice, his words picking up pace as he stampedes his way through his thoughts. “I’m not ready, you weren’t ready either right? Right? It’s not wrong?”

“To not be ready?” Ian’s eyes are wide, pleading with Dustin to say what he needs to hear. “It’s not wrong. I decided I want to be remembered for my playing. I wanna be remembered by the guy they see on that field. Not this.” 

Ian visibly relaxes. “That’s exactly what it is. I want them to remember me...at all. But not for this. I don’t want them to hate me.” Ian’s shoulders are still up next to his ears, and he’s picking at his thumbnail nervously now. “I just, the guys - Mookie, Benintendi, they’re not expecting that out of me, are they?”   
  


“God, no.” Dustin scoffs a little. “Mookie already has a plan. He’s gonna wait a couple more seasons and then come out. He’s told me all about it. Can you imagine? Knowing you’re that good of a baseball player, he’s not afraid at all.” He smiles wistfully at Ian. “Think of the kids. Trans kids. Like we were. Watching a trans man who is undoubtedly one of the greatest players to pick up a bat. What’s that gonna do for them? For the future of baseball?” 

Ian is just staring at Dustin, letting it all sink in. His mouth is slightly agape in shock. “Really, only a few more years? That seems...so...he’s ready for that?”

Dustin nods. “Of course he’s ready. He’s young but, he knows what he’s doing. I envy him, a little. He’s not concerned with like, how he’s going to be remembered. He already knows he’s one of the best. No matter what he’s gonna be in the Hall of Fame for sure.”

Ian fidgets a little, like he’s adjusting to the fact that now the perceived weight of the world is no longer hanging over his head. “You get me though, why I don’t want to...be out like that?”

Dustin nods. “Of course. It’s a legitimate fear. Fans can be...passionate. Especially here. If they don’t love you, they hate you. And it’ll change on a moments notice. Adding gasoline onto that fire...I’d rather have Boston love me for the World Series, than hate me for drawing attention to myself outside of being on this team.” Dustin looks at Ian, his mopey face, the dent in between his eyebrows, and he feels a flood of an unfamiliar feeling. A warmth in his chest, radiating outwards, like a little sun where his heart should be. “I think though - I think things are changing Ian. Baseball is different than when we were rookies. I think that someday a little ways off in the future, we’ll realize it wasn't just this little pocket of guys in Boston. I think there’s gotta be more of us. And that’s not even counting the minors, the kids in college, fuck, maybe even high school, who are ready to do what we aren’t ready to do. I think they’ll be great at it.” 

Dustin normally isn’t a pep talk kind of guy, especially like this,  _ especially _ with someone who he has only just met. But when he looks at Ian, he feels the warmth in his chest again, and he just has to say something to get his eyebrows to uncrease and his frown to falter. He doesn’t understand the urge really. Ian smiles faintly, and murmurs a thank you. They sit there in silence for a few minutes, neither of them saying anything. But it’s not a silence that either of them feels like they need to fill. Almost like he’s being pulled by a magnet, Dustin spreads his legs a little so his knee bumps Ian’s. It jostles Ian out of his trance, and he looks at Dustin with this expression that makes Ian look younger than he did a few seconds ago.

“I think they’ll be great too.” He says, smile evident in his voice. “And it makes me glad, they won’t have to feel like how I felt. Alone. They’ll have people.” Ian doesn’t move his leg away from Dustin’s, and it feels like they’ve bridged this huge gap, all in one day.  _ Figures _ , Dustin thinks to himself,  _ he steps one foot in this clubhouse and gets set on the right path within 12 hours _ .

“You should talk to Cora. He’s got a thumb on the pulse of this place, it’ll make him happy if you come to him first, since he’ll learn about it eventually.” Dustin suggests. “He should still be around.”

Ian nods and stands up suddenly. “Yeah. He seems like a good guy. It’ll be easy I think, after I stood up in front of everyone and spilled my guts like that.”

“I’m glad you told ‘em.” Dustin doesn’t know why he says that, or why Ian smiles down at him like he’s so fucking pleased he got him to say something so... _ sweet _ .

“Me too.” Ian says, and saunters off to find Cora, looking much happier than Dustin had ever remembered him looking before.

* * *

After the chat Ian had with Dustin, he left feeling grounded, understood. Between the pressure of being closeted shifting to the pressure of a spotlight, and the breakdown from earlier, he had about as much emotional whiplash as he could handle for one day. He really just wanted to talk to Cora, and then go back to the hotel, and sleep for the rest of the month. He was also starving, he probably had missed a dose of his medication, and he felt like he hadn’t done anything he needed to do. He wasn’t sure if he was in the lineup tomorrow, or even if he had a jersey yet.  Ian is caught in the middle of a horrific fantasy where he is called to play at second base tomorrow and he has to wear his Angels jersey because they don’t have a Red Sox one for him yet when he hears someone calling his name from behind him.

“Hey! Hey! Kinsler, wait up.” Kinsler turns and sees Mookie rounding a corner after him. “I gotta talk to you about something.”

“I’m actually about to go talk to Cora-” Ian starts, before Mookie swiftly interrupts him.

“Oh, AC won’t care if you’re a little late. We gotta talk about my bat.” He smiles, and Ian thinks he’s never seen a face so suited for a smile. Mookie looks so young, smiling with a boyish, mischievous look on his face. “I can’t  _ really _ forgive you until you replace it. It was lucky!”

“Not lucky enough to keep me away from it, I guess.” Ian says, and Mookie cackles.

“Oh, shut up. You have to replace it. And soon. Can’t be the leadoff hitter without a lucky bat!” He’s smiling, and Ian knows Mookie’s just ribbing him gently, making him feel part of the team. The breakdown feels like it was a year ago, but with Mookie smiling and laughing about it, almost  _ at _ Ian, it makes Ian feel more comfortable with it. Laughing at himself is always difficult, but Mookie makes it feel so easy.

“Fine, fine. I’ll...I don’t know. I can get you cash?” 

Mookie giggles. An honest to god giggle. “I asked Pedey to get your Venmo for me, but I realized after I sent it, neither of you probably know what it is. So, yeah. Cash.” There’s the million dollar smile again, and Mookie’s hand is extended in front of him, to shake on the deal.

Ian does. Mookie’s hands are soft, but the handshake is firm. “I’m not  _ that _ old, Betts. You gotta respect your elders.”

Mookie starts to cackle again, walking side by side with Ian as he makes his way to Cora’s office. “Just so you know...I respect you.” The tone suddenly shifts, like Mookie had done a 180 on their casual conversation. It left Ian in a spin-out for a second, fumbling for a response. 

“Uh, thank you.” He settles on that, but it doesn’t feel sufficient. 

“I mean it. It takes guts, doing what you did today. In front of everyone.” Ian feels lost a little. He honestly thought Mookie and him wouldn't have repaired what Ian had ruined so quickly, and that he and Mookie would’ve sat on opposite ends of the bench, not speaking for the rest of their careers. “It’s never easy to do that. Even if we all kinda...pretend like it is.”

“Yeah. I…this is all new to me. Sorry again, about the stunt I pulled.” Ian still feels the remorse and embarrassment twist in his gut, reflexively, even knowing that Mookie seemed not to care. “I can’t believe yesterday I was in a clubhouse full of regular guys - and now-”

“Hey.” Mookie cuts him off, the sly smile returning to his lips.

“None of you are gonna let me get away with  _ anything _ are you?” He huffs, mildly irritated, but also, touched that Mookie would intervene.

“Especially not self loathing shit like that. Now, go talk to Cora.” Mookie walks away with that, and Ian gives a weak little wave as he exits. This day has been so overwhelming, but watching Mookie’s broad shoulders recede back into the clubhouse, Ian realizes that this was insanely lucky.

It hits him at random times, how insane this all is, how the stars align in a way that makes Ian’s life caught in the middle of an insane miracle and a particular kind of torture. But right now, for the first time in a while, he feels like the scales might be tipping his way. It could be the rebound from the Adderall, or it could be the fact that his whole life feels like it’s on the cusp of changing.

He shakes his head, like he’s physically shaking the thoughts away. Ian has all the time in the world to get retrospective tomorrow on the bench. But the thoughts don’t stop.  _ This is all so fucking weird _ , he thinks, feeling his face stretch into a smile.  _ Nothing about this team makes any sense at all. _

**Author's Note:**

> title is from a weakerthans song  
> thank you to everyone from mlbnet for helping encourage me to write this and especially to lewis who read this over about 600 times and helped beta it  
> if you liked it enough, comment, it means a lot to me!


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